Today, we shed the blood of the past
in battle. Memories wail, bleed, and are no more.
We watch blood spurt from the cuts
that our blades have made, like an artist
who, on the completion of his work, leans
back and observes.
Is there too much blue here? A little less light
there? What about the proportion? The balance?
We watch the images of yesteryears surrender
their throats to the chilly hands of death. Engulfed
in the flames of our rage, they recoil, shrink, then – pfft!
We have murdered our memories!
For, sorrow is memory;
pain is memory.
So: today, we learn to forget;
to not just ignore the letters of history,
but erase them altogether; crumple the
sheets, and toss them across our shoulders;
to leave the mess untended,
the room unslept in; the house deserted.
That house of cognition, with its high walls
and massive gates and narrow hallways,
closing in by the second, draining our air.
Death is memory.
Today, we learn to live.